


Starbound

by wayward_abused



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Drug Use, Glamlock, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, blowjob, bottomlock, sherlock in body glitter, sherlock using drugs, shower scene, top!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayward_abused/pseuds/wayward_abused
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starbound is a place where sinners and outcasts discover the pleasures of humanity. It is here that John encounters a mysterious singer who captures his soul. Driven by the memory of the dark-haired singer's passionate performance, John strikes out in search of the man who haunts his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starbound

**Author's Note:**

> WIP - New chapters coming soon!

It was called a haunt for a reason, John mused. Perhaps “guilty pleasure” might have been a better term for the place, since John wouldn’t be caught dead here by anyone he knew. But “haunt” suggested a sort of spectral quality, and in the jewel-colored shadows, he could certainly pretend to be a phantom. He took another sip of whiskey and made a face. The stuff was two parts piss and one part fire, but it took the edge off.Grimacing, he nursed the last dregs and kicked it back in a single swallow. No, haunt was right, he finally decided. Drunken semantics. 

Rapping his knuckles on the bar, he motioned for the bartender to refill his tumbler. 

“Perhaps you’ve had enough for tonight, Johnny boy,” the bartender suggested quietly, but John pierced him with the type of stare that used to make greater men quake in their boots back in the military. He watched as the amber liquid tipped over the crystal lip of the bottle into his glass. 

“Thanks, Mike” he murmured, and drained the glass in one go. It was starting to taste better. Mike Stamford raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. 

If John had to name a place that reflected his personality, _Starbound_ would probably be the last locale on his list. In his starched button-up and knitted jumper, he couldn’t have stuck out more if he’d plastered a neon sign to his forehead. But the whiskey was cheap and it was frequented by every class of misfit imaginable. Usually, the place was awash in studded leather, glitter eyeshadow, and the types of debauchery that would make a sinner blush. In his personal life, John was about as wild as oatmeal, but he couldn’t seem to stay away from the place; the energy of it appealed to him on a visceral level, deep within his bones. It wasn’t the details of the crowd, but the overall artistic effect: fire, flesh, and the screaming passion of sensation. It was hard not to feel alive at _Starbound._

But the place was dead tonight, and now John was the worst kind of drunk. With a sleepy groan, he tapped his nails against his empty glass with an irritated _tink tink tink._ Onstage, a long-haired hippie was crooning the most awful rendition of _The Long and Winding Road_ that John had ever heard, which did little to improve his inebriated melancholy.

“God, what a racket,” he muttered, catching Mike's eye. Mike half-smirked sympathetically. 

The song went on and on, each note more irritating than the last. Just as John was about to convince himself that he was sober enough to head home, the curtain swept shut and the lights dimmed. 

“What’s all this then?” John wondered aloud. The _Starbound_ was all about theatrics; the performers usually just set up on stage with the curtains open, clanging about and showing off for the crowds before the performance even began. Subtlety was not a part of the vocabulary here. Curiosity piqued, John sat back down. The stage was dark and silent. 

Then, with startling suddenness, the curtains swung open with a rush of air, revealing a piercing blue light. It swelled until it filled the whole stage, shattering the darkness into a contrast of frost and shadow. In the center of it all, directly below the spotlight, knelt a figure. John couldn’t make out his face - it was hidden beneath a cascade of black curls so long that they brushed the man’s bare, white shoulders, but he cut such a striking figure that John could not look away. In fact, it took John several moments to notice that the singer was not the only one on stage. From the shadows beyond the man, the drummer took up a beat, slow and pounding in the darkness. The singer remained motionless as another player joined in on the guitar, the sound reverberating with such clarity that it electrified John to his bones. The opening chords swelled, and it seemed to John as though it were playing in time with the beating of his own heart; he listened, transfixed by the sound and the motionless figure of the singer still kneeling onstage. 

And then, the hunched figure began to sing. For a few moments, the words were almost indistinguishable; he held the microphone pressed to his mouth, the words rumbling with his breath. 

“ _Touch me…_ ” 

The words hung in the air, and slowly, the singer raised his face at last. He was a puzzle of shadows under the spotlight: gaunt cheekbones caught the glare of the icy blue light, and a sensuous, cupid’s-bow mouth parted, as though the singer were waiting for a lover’s kiss. 

 “ _Hold me like a grenade…_ ” 

 The world dimmed into a dream. John listened, transfixed by the husky, pleading voice. Slowly, the singer raised himself up onto his knees, arching his back. His bare chest was pale and glistening, and John could see every ripple of the man’s stomach in the cold light. He shivered, feeling suddenly rather warm and exposed. 

 “ _Sweat and stimulation, another miscommunication - I need some confirmation that I’m yours…”_

 The singer moved in time with the beat as it swelled to a throbbing crescendo. He gyrated in sync with the drums, and struggled against the reverberating pulse of the bass. Every movement was hypnotic. Unconsciously, John undid the top button of his shirt, feeling suddenly rather hot around the collar. He had never experienced a performance like this before. 

 As the final verse began, the singer seemed to have lapsed into a frenzied trance. Each word ached with passion, and even from here, John could see the sweat glistening on the man’s skin. 

 “ _Touch me!”_ The singer tossed his head, his damp hair clinging to his cheeks. _“Hold me!”_ He threw his head back again, exposing the taut line of his pale throat. _“Tell me that you need me!”_ He was shaking now, his chest heaving with each breath. For a moment, there was silence, and then, the singer turned and stared directly out at John, his eyes wild. John’s heart jumped into his throat as the singer cried out, “ _I’m your electric lover!”_ As he sang the final note, the singer collapsed onto the stage and his hair fell over his face once more. The microphone rolled from his limp hand. For a moment, the air quivered with the last echoing notes, and then the curtain swung shut, cutting off the cold blue light. 

 It was over. 

 For a moment, there was a bubble of stunned silence, followed by a timid smattering of applause. A few patrons turned to whisper to each other. 

 “Quite a performance, that.” John startled. He hadn’t noticed Mike move up beside him. “Never seen anything like that before, eh?”

John was suddenly aware of the fact that he was still staring at the place where the singer had fallen. He blinked and looked over at Mike. “What?”

Mike gave a snort. “Boy, I’m gonna have to start regulating your flow, huh? No more open tabs for you, my friend.”  

But John did not feel drunk anymore. He felt strange, as though he’d been punched in the gut and couldn’t quite catch his breath again. Suddenly feeling claustrophobic in Mike's presence, he gave a half-hearted smile and placed a couple of bills on the counter. “Night, Mike,” he said, pulling his jacket on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Right,” Mike replied, eyebrows knitting. “Tomorrow then.” 

John glanced at the stage once more, a strange swoop rippling through his belly, and hurried out into the rain. As he walked home, all he could think about was the look in the singer’s eyes, electric in the pale light. 

***

John returned to the _Starbound_ every night that week. He felt as though the performance had been a dream, and when he walked into the bar the next night only to find the usual gaudy crowds, he almost wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. The thought made him feel strangely empty.

“Usual for you?” Mike asked as John took up his normal spot at the bar. “You were off in a hurry yesterday.” 

“I was drunk,” John retorted, half-laughing. “But I’m not drinking tonight.” 

Mike's eyebrows sprang up. “What, you’re just here to enjoy the sights, are you?” When John shrugged, Mike shook his head disbelievingly. “Right, well, suit yourself then. I’ll be here if you decide to come to your senses.” 

It was a typical night at _Starbound._ Masses of bodies pulsed and throbbed in the shifting colors, moving in time with some unspoken rhythm. Already, the room was oppressively hot, but John hardly noticed. He watched the crowds with a sort of detached feeling of anticipation. Some crappy local band was playing tonight, a gangly bunch of pockmarked teens, but John barely heard them. He gazed at the stage, remembering the face of the dark-haired singer, so alien and striking in the cold light. 

A part of him wondered what he was doing here. Did he expect to see the singer again? And even if he did, what then? It wasn’t as if he’d talk to the man; no one noticed men like John Watson. 

Still, John couldn’t help himself from coming back again and again, only to find the same parade of mediocre music and debased pleasures. Before, _Starbound_ had been a place to find solace among the rest of London’s outcasts. This was where humanity found its natural climax: the electricity between limbs, the most secret tastes the human form had to offer, the appeasement of foreign appetites. But John felt as though the singer had opened a door into a new land, one which he ached to explore. He thought of the man’s wild, icy eyes, and wondered what virgin lands lay waiting to be discovered within. Without the singer, this place was barren, insensate - meaningless. 

“You’re putting me out of business,” Mike complained on the fifth night of John’s vigil. “What are you doing, John? You’ve sat here all week and done nothing but stare at the wall. What’s this about? Troubles with the missus?”

John glanced at Mike and graced him with a twitch of a smile. “You know there’s no missus.” 

Mike groaned. “Are you going to do this forever, then? Sit there and wait for the world to crumble while my whiskey sits here untouched? Is that it?” 

“So you _want_ me to drink now?”

“You know what I mean.” Mike sighed, and softened his tone. “Come on now, John, we’ve known each other a long time. You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

John sighed. “It’s nothing, really. I just…” He glanced up at the stage, and frowned. “I just feel strange. Like I’m meant to… to _do_ something. Like I’m waiting for something to happen.” The words annoyed him, and he could feel a blush creeping up his throat. He didn’t mention the way the dark-haired singer’s eyes haunted him, nor the way his raw, husky voice sent unfamiliar flutters down John’s spine. His mouth twitched. 

“Well, do what you want,” Mike said after a pause. “Just don’t sit around waiting so long that you forget to live.” He gave John a clap on the shoulder and walked off. John didn’t turn to watch him go. 

***

In his dreams, the singer was naked. John longed to touch any part of him, to feel the vibration of his voice in his chest, to explore the coastline of his trembling throat. The petals of his lips were full and hot, open for a lover’s kiss… _I’m your electric lover…_

John awoke drenched with sweat, the memory of the dream still pulsing in his mind. Shaking his head, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and buried his head in his hands. _What was he doing?_ John considered himself a level-headed and practical man. He was a doctor, a soldier, a veteran. He had seen men die in his arms, and not lost sleep. So why could he not shake this image from his mind? He felt like a man possessed. 

Stripping off his undershirt and shorts, John climbed into the shower without even turning on the light. God, he’d never been awoken so… well, hot and bothered, as it were - leastways not to the thought of a man. But the singer seemed to be in his own category of being - something ethereal, esoteric, and so very _erotic…_ In the darkness, it was all too easy to slip back into the hazy vision - a jumble of light and dark, a body aching and alive. John shivered, letting the warm water run into his mouth. He didn’t even know the singer’s name, he realized for the thousandth time. He’d only seen him once, from a distance. Really, he knew nothing about the man, nothing at all… 

When he felt himself grow hard in the darkness, he did nothing to stop it. The memory of the singer’s open mouth flickered and pulsed behind John’s eyes, the lips parted and panting, the husky shiver of his breath… With a gasp, John let his hand touch the now-throbbing testament to his own madness, but it felt so good, so good… _Touch me_ , the singer had said, _hold me like a grenade._

 Just pull the pin and let it explode. 

 

 


End file.
